Happy Birthday,Jason, Love, Mom
by GoldRedeemer
Summary: Not everyone remembers Jason's birthday, but Mother certainly does. I do not own the character of Jason Voorhees or his mother, Pamela.


The filthy, small shack stood in the near center of the thick forest, undisturbed by the night sounds, and the creatures they originated from. The late evening was a typical one for Crystal Lake, foggy, misty, cool. A half moon cast a bright reflection off of the surface of the cold lake. The water resembled glass, for there was not a single ripple due to the fact that no wind was blowing. The figure that stood near the lake, on the sandy shore did not notice this, or simply did not care about it. It was a man, tall and well built, but upon closer inspection, the man's body looked like it had been through a severe state of decomposition and mutilation. A dirt smeared, cracked hockey mask rested over the face of the man, Jason Voorhees. This was home, Crystal Lake, known to some as the infamous Camp Blood. Many had visited. Only a few had lived and escaped with their lives to tell about it. It did not matter to Jason why these strange people kept intruding on his territory. He did not care if some lost person or intruder happened to accidentally stumble across his home. Jason would kill ANYONE in his sights. Mother had to be avenged.

Stalking back through the forest, he carried over his shoulder the body of a young woman in her early 20s. Her matching blue blouse and skirt were ripped and stained with her own blood. Blood from a deep gash lining her neck and throat. This one had been an easy kill. Jason had seen her running toward a dusty tool shed. A shed that contained many bladed or edged tools perfect for cutting, slicing, and slaughtering. No one heard the young girl's piercing screams.

Jason pushed open the door of his shack, stepping inside, his giant frame filling up the entire entrance. The body was dropped rudely to the dirty floor next to a long neglected skull. The inside of the shack looked as if it was inhabited by a wild animal, with rotting floors and walls covered in mold and dust. In a nearby corner a crude bed lay, complete with an old blanket, soiled sheets and a pillow in desperate need of washing. Somewhere inside of the shack, a rat crept near a decomposing body, sniffing with an intention to feast. It kept its distance from the hulking man with the hockey masked face. Jason breathed heavily, standing with his back to the door of the shack, looking down at something placed on a small table surrounded by lit candles. He cocked his head to the right, slightly, as if in a state of confusion.

Ever since first building the shack, Jason kept the decapitated head of his mother on a table as a symbol of remembrance, as well as to honor the dead woman. Naturally, the head had decomposed over time. The now wrinkled skin had taken upon a dirty tan color, much of the hair had fallen out, leaving just enough to grab or to pull. The closed eyes were sunken in and the mouth hung open. It almost resembled a shrunken head. The head had not been moved, Jason noticed, but on the left of the head and the lit candles, two wrapped packages had been placed. One of the packages appeared good sized, about 2 or 3 feet long, less than an inch thick. The other package, which was wrapped in blue paper, was smaller, probably the same size as a human head, but in some ways, more circular shaped. Jason felt anger well up inside of him. He kicked a wooden chair over in fury. Someone apparently had intruded in on his home while he had been absent. He or she may be still around the area, close by. Jason started for the door, heading for the woods again to hunt, but something stopped him in his tracks. He suddenly remembered something important. Those packages he had discovered sitting on his table could only mean one thing. Today was Friday the 13th. His birthday. Mother had remembered, as always.

Jason stepped back over to the table with his mother's head, placing his rusty machete nearby. He pulled up the chair which he had kicked over earlier, positioning it in order for him to sit. The man now sat directly in front of the severed head, and he placed the longer package on his lap. It felt somewhat heavy, but it didn't feel exactly light weight either. After ripping the blue paper away, Jason held up a brand new machete, which glinted in the light cast by the candles. Upon closer inspection, he could see that the blade had been sharpened. Jason would definetely be testing it out soon enough. He gripped the weapon in his left hand, while using his right to drop the other old, rusty machete to the floor to kick it under his bed. The new machete was carefully placed on the table as Jason grabbed the second package. Inside, he would discover that he had been granted with the best gift of all.

The new hockey mask fit snugly on Jason's horrid face. Before actually putting it on, he had stared at the mask for a few moments, fascinated by its mint condition and newness. Jason kept no mirrors in the shack, and with good reason. He had seen his face once as a child and never wished to see that image reflected back at him ever again. The mask was perfect, just as long as it kept his face concealed. Jason stood up from the chair, leaving his other old, dirty mask on the table in front of "Mother."

For a brief second, he thought he saw mother smile at him. He wasn't sure. If it had been a hallucination, it had not been the first. He had been fooled before by an intended victim, making him believe that the prey was in fact his mother. That victim, a woman, had gotten away, never returning to Crystal Lake. That was all fine for Jason. No one belonged here but him and mother, and keeping people away, far away, was a job that Jason would always undertake. His thoughts were suddenly interrrupted by something. An odd smell in the air. Pungent. He never knew exactly what created the annoying smell, but Jason had smelled it before, and the last time he did, he had found a victim in the woods. He gripped his new large machete in one hand and headed for the door once again.

In a clearing, about thirty feet from the delapidated shack, a couple of fresh high school graduates, both male, sat on a thick log, passing a large joint back and forth to each other. One of the teens pulled out a red and black pipe, stuffed to the rim with marijuana. "Hey, check it out." he said. The other male, Darryn, nearly choked on the joint. "Dude, how much green do you keep??" He was already half stoned, but he didn't seem to mind getting totally baked. He spoke again, nearly slurring in his words. "Hey, Rocko, why don't we go look for that Voorhees character. I mean, we are stoned enough, ain't we?" Rocko didn't look at his friend as he replied. "So, you wanna just sneak around in the woods to look for someone that we ain't even gonna find, right?" Darryn laughed. "Well, duuuhhh, dude. It's all in fun. I know that Jason Voorhees ain't real." Darryn took another deeper hit from the joint. Rocko pulled a lighter from his shirt pocket. "Man you're weird. Or just amazingly high. After we finish this, we're goin back to my house for munchies." Rocko thought to himself for a brief second. "Wait, what am I saying? I forgot. WHITE CASTLE!!!!" He and Darryn exchanged a high five before Rocko put the pipe to his mouth. After he was done, he handed the pipe to Darryn. "Yo, your turn, man." Darryn seemed completely frozen. He was staring at something past Rocko, who thought that his friend was just staring into empty space. "Damn, it's just plain weed, not LSD. Snap out of it man." Darryn finally spoke, but with a bit of fear in his voice. "Either, I'm ultra baked, or I just saw someone standing behind that tree over there. Dude, we're gonna get caught!" Rocko looked toward the direction where his friend had motioned. He then looked back at Darryn. "Must be some bomb ass weed i scored. Haha." There was no one standing behind the tree that Rocko had glared at.

Darryn figured the dark must have played tricks on his eyes. That and the marijuana. Yeah, that's all it was, he thought to himself. He took the pipe from Rocko. This time Rocko was staring past Darryn at someone or something directly behind him. Darryn had been talking, but Rocko did not hear him. He only heard the chirp of crickets, a hooting owl, and the sound of raspy breathing from the towering hockey masked dark figure that stood behind Darryn. Rocko shakily raised one hand, slightly waving. His voice coated with terror. "Uhhh, hi." Darryn looked at Rocko, puzzled, as Jason lifted the machete high into the air. "Dude, who are you talking to, Jason? HAHAHA."


End file.
